


John Just Can't Catch a Break

by Loopy456



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:37:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loopy456/pseuds/Loopy456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first time, it’s funny. Of course, the fact that he spends most of his time chasing around after Sherlock Holmes means that whatever gods govern the universe have decided that putting crime in his path is only right and just.</i>
</p><p>John's trying to get home after a long day at work, so why won't crimes stop bloody following him everywhere he goes? And why can't Sherlock buy his own bloody milk for once?</p><p>
  <b>Written for a prompt on Kink Meme.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Just Can't Catch a Break

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on Kink Meme:
> 
> _John's had kind of a rough day at the surgery, and all he wants to do is go home and relax. But on his way home, John witnesses several different crimes and has to give statements about them all before he can go home. Maybe he witnesses a mugging and decides to help out? Perhaps he overhears some couple having a row and ends up calling the police on account of domestic violence? Or he catches some moron attempting a B &E. Either way, John just wants to go home already but crimes follow him wherever he goes._

The first time, it’s funny. Of course, the fact that he spends most of his time chasing around after Sherlock Holmes means that whatever gods govern the universe have decided that putting crime in his path is only right and just. Better him than some other poor bugger who couldn’t deal with it.

The thing is, after the day he’s had, John doesn’t particularly feel like pulling some stupid, doped-up kid out of the window of the house he’s trying to break in to. Not at all. But he does anyway, because his role in life seems to have been reduced to Official Moral Compass, and that is apparently not restricted to Sherlock but now includes a large proportion of London itself, particularly those inclined towards criminal acts.

While he’s busy sitting firmly on the abdomen of the ill-advised, would-be burglar and requesting ever-so politely that one of the passers-by might like to consider calling the police, John feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. _Sherlock_ , he thinks, but, being otherwise occupied, he doesn’t check just yet.

Eventually, Scotland Yard deigns to show up. Although breaking and entering isn’t technically his division, Lestrade had been informed that a dubious and slightly scary looking character had apprehended the burglar, so he thought he’d better show his face.

 _‘He looks awfully scary,’_ the 999 caller had apparently whispered down the phone. _‘Bit too calm, you see. Almost like he’s enjoying it. None of us want to offer to help him.’_

Replaying this information in his head, Lestrade isn’t surprised when he arrives and finds a familiar figure giving him a rather crooked smile.

‘Evening Greg,’ John says with cheerful resignation. ‘You took your time. I was rather hoping to be home by now.’

‘Long day, was it?’ Lestrade enquires, watching his officers handcuff the youth.

‘You have no idea,’ John rolls his eyes, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone and dusting himself off at the same time. He checks his messages.

_We need milk. SH._

***

Milk. That all-important substance that the world revolves around. His and Sherlock’s world, anyway. Well, that and crime. Just as John’s had that rather worrying realisation, fate decides to combine milk and crime in one happy bundle and puts a nice shoplifter right in John’s path as he wanders through the supermarket in search of milk.

He’s had a long day, full of whinging children and people demanding antibiotics for the common cold, and it’s not like you can very well explain to them about rising antibiotic resistance among bacteria and how, anyway, the common cold is most definitely caused by a virus, because once Joe Public has it in his head that he needs antibiotics, he won’t let it go without a fight. So, John is exhausted. He doesn’t even realise that he’s chased a shoplifter all the way along the refrigerator aisle and rugby tackled him to the ground until people around him start applauding and the supermarket security guard is helping him up and wringing his hand.

‘We’ve been trying to get him for weeks, thanks,’ says the grateful man.

‘No problem,’ John is a bit bemused by the whole thing. Apparently he reacted on instinct. Living with Sherlock will do that to a man, more so than even the army.

‘I’ve called the police,’ the security guard says. ‘You’d better hang around until they get here.’

John just rolls his eyes again and sinks down onto the floor to wait, keeping an eye on the shoplifter at the same time. The shoplifter glares back at him from under the sole of the security guard’s boot. Despite his weariness, John grins broadly back. Nothing like a little bit of crime to boost the spirits.

He doesn’t recognise the police when they arrive, but they definitely recognise him.

‘Alright, Doctor Watson?’ calls one of the sergeants cheerfully, managing to grin at John while wielding his handcuffs. ‘Are you sure you don’t want my job?’

If John knew him, he might have flipped him the v-sign in lieu of an answer. As it is, he just sighs and gives his statement.

He leaves the supermarket without any milk.

***

You have to be a fool to commit a crime in front of John Watson. You have to be even more of a fool if that particular crime is a mugging. And you have to be even more of a fool to attempt to mug John Watson himself. One particularly scrawny trying-to-be-hard teenager finds this out that evening, under the cover of darkness that has fallen while John was otherwise occupied in the supermarket.

John is so used to such unexpected turns of events that he doesn’t even flinch when the boy grabs his collar and starts to hiss threats in his ear. Instead, he just seizes the boy’s arm and flips him onto the floor with ease. The boy is too shocked to fight back. John’s only thought as he pulls the boys arm up behind his back and immobilises him is that he’d really like a cup of tea sometime soon or he’s going to go even more crazy.

This time, he calls the police himself.

A mugging is much more up Lestrade’s alley and he hastens to the scene at once.

‘John,’ he sighs, upon arrival. John looks considerably less amiable than he did the last time they met.

‘I know, I know,’ John groans, stretching his leg out experimentally. ‘I am trying to get home, believe me.’

Lestrade frowns. The man looks shattered.

‘You need food and sleep,’ he observes with narrowed eyes. A deduction Sherlock would be proud of, clearly.

‘Tell me about it,’ John grumbles. ‘It’s not like I’m dawdling on purpose.’

‘Surely you should’ve been home an hour ago,’ the DI consults his watch.

‘There was a shoplifter in the supermarket,’ explains John wryly. ‘Oh dammit, milk!’

Lestrade throws back his head and laughs. ‘You’re more of a danger magnet than Sherlock, and that’s saying something.’

‘Speak of the devil,’ John mutters, pulling out his phone. ‘“Where are you? Don’t forget the milk. SH.” Well, I’ll try not to, Sherlock. You could always get some yourself, you know.’

‘You’d better go,’ Lestrade rolls his eyes. ‘If His Highness is calling.’

‘Oh shut up,’ says John, stabbing out a reply to Sherlock. _Got mugged. Sorry to inconvenience you with any delay._

He leaves the crime scene, making a detour towards the nearest supermarket. His phone vibrates again.

_Ah. Don’t forget the milk. SH._

***

He’s waiting in the queue, having finally managed to acquire milk, when a woman two tills over collapses. The milk lies abandoned on the floor while John hurries over. If he’s honest with himself, he could’ve moved just a little bit faster, but half of him hopes that another doctor will miraculously appear from nowhere and get him off the hook. He just wants to go home.

She’s not, as he first feared, having a heart attack. He’s performed CPR in much worse conditions and under a much higher level of both physical and mental fatigue, but he’s not really in the right mind set for that right now. Afghanistan really is unrivalled for providing adrenaline.

John sits with the woman while she gathers herself and, when she feels she can walk, he helps her up and into the office that the manager helpfully offers.

‘Okay now?’ he asks, perching on the desk while she sips at a flimsy plastic tumbler of water.

‘Mmm,’ she can’t meet his eyes.

‘Has anything like that happened before?’ John persists. ‘Do you have low blood pressure? Anaemia? Diabetes? Are you on any medication? Any heart issues?’

He surreptitiously checked for any kind of medical bracelet while she was sat on the floor leaning against him for support, of course, but people don’t always wear those. You can never be too careful with these things.

She blinks up at him.

‘Are you a doctor?’ she whispers. A bit of colour has come back into her cheeks but she’s still quite pale.

He nods encouragingly.

The woman hesitates, before reaching behind her head to pull back the neck of her baggy jumper. She refuses to meet his eyes as she indicates that he should take a look. What he sees makes his blood boil.

‘My husband…’ she says falteringly. John feels sick. He reaches into his pocket for his phone, and then pauses.

‘Do you want me to…?’ he trails off, waving the phone around like an idiot. She bits her lip, and then nods slowly. Her eyes are full of tears and shame and John wants to hug her. Instead, he dials a number. Not 999 this time, but Lestrade’s personal number.

***

John eventually makes it home, over two hours later than he was anticipating. He’s still tired, still grouchy and still hungry. And apparently, Sherlock is still his usual, charming self.

‘Milk?’ he enquires, the second John steps through the door.

‘Oh dammit,’ John grinds out between clenched teeth. ‘You’re just going to have to go yourself, Sherlock. I’m done for the day.’

‘But you were just out,’ Sherlock says petulantly. 

‘Excellent deduction,’ John agrees, shrugging off his coat and sinking down into his chair gratefully. ‘Now, maybe you could deduce something about my current state of mind and arrive at the conclusion that I am not leaving the flat again tonight, and especially not for sodding milk.’

Sherlock considers.

‘Dinner?’ he asks, after a short period of silence.

‘You’re never going to make dinner,’ John looks at Sherlock suspiciously.

‘No, of course not,’ Sherlock agrees. ‘But you could. I just thought I’d remind you that, as tempting as you are finding your chair now, you’ll regret it in approximately one and three quarter hours if you haven’t eaten anything.’

John scowls in acquiescence, before dragging himself up and searching for the quickest and easiest possible meal in the kitchen.

‘Are you okay?’ after about five minutes, Sherlock appears in the doorway, leaning casually.

‘Huh?’ John replies intelligently.

‘Mugging. You. Earlier. Are you okay?’ Sherlock, as always, looks annoyed at having to spell it out for idiots.

‘Oh,’ John is surprised Sherlock didn’t delete that information as soon as he got it, seeing as it was blatantly obvious from the fact that John was able to text that he wasn’t grievously injured. ‘Yes, I’m fine thanks. No harm done.’

After he’s eaten, John is feeling immeasurably better. If he’s honest, it’s not just the food that has improved his mood, but the fact that Sherlock actually cared enough to enquire after his wellbeing.

‘I could go and get that milk now, if you like,’ he offers eventually. _Positive reinforcement,_ he’s thinking to himself. _If Sherlock does something nice, I must do something nice for him._

‘Mmhmm,’ Sherlock sounds as if that was never really in doubt.

The streets are considerably quieter now than a few hours ago. John manages, finally, to purchase milk and is on his way home when a commotion erupts in front of him. Pushing his way through the small crowd that quickly forms, he dumps the milk on the ground and, with the help of another man, hastily pulls apart the two brawling twenty-something year olds. They continue to spit insults and swing punches at each other, so John pushes his charge to the floor and sits on his head.

Seeing that everyone around is gaping open mouthed, John sighs the deep sigh of the put-upon, pulls out his own phone and calls Lestrade again.

‘What have you got yourself mixed up in this time, John?’ is Lestrade’s opening line. And, ‘Haven’t I seen you enough today already?’ is the favoured witticism once he arrives, barely concealing his grin.

Half an hour later, John is ambling home, milk in hand. A car pulls up alongside him and Lestrade winds the window down. 

‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he grins, ‘seeing as you’ve made four citizen’s arrests and comforted a battered wife today.’

‘Oh shut up,’ John says, without heat. ‘At least I got the milk.’


End file.
